


Faultlines Tremble for Us

by hooksandheroics



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Sexting, Tagalog speaking!bellamy, Tattoos, Tumblr Prompts, Weddings, bathroom make out sessions, injuries, lawyer!bellarke, one-night stands, probably, prodding hands, sexual tension to the extreme, smuuut, these two are just steaming with UST it's not even healthy anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-03-16 00:05:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 16,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3467066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hooksandheroics/pseuds/hooksandheroics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of prompts collected over tumblr. (Aka, the display of blatant sexual tension in various scenes and imaginings.)</p><p>(Trust me on this.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "I’m going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else."

**Author's Note:**

> **"I’m going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else."**

Clarke has had the worst night that, even without getting up from her rather uncomfortable position on her bed, she knows she’d be sporting the worst headache known to mankind. Add the decidedly very heavy weight across her stomach to the list of things she doesn’t remember.

She’s ready to shuck this off as a weird dream when the heavy weight now known as a disembodied arm peeking out from her covers and draped across her torso moves and curls around her even tighter.

"What the fu —

A very deep, roughened-by-slumber voice shushes her, and it should not have happened, but a shiver runs down her spine at the rush of breath against her ear. “Let’s just…” he trails off (oh and she’s beginning to remember just who this arm belongs to), and she shoots up from the bed, glaring at — of course.  _Bellamy._

In absolute record time, she has shoved him away and off from her bed, so that he’s standing in the middle of her room wearing nothing but… wearing nothing. Not even a single strand of thread on his body.  _God fucking dammit._

"Why are you — you’re naked — what the —

"Oh, that’s how it is," he leers, crossing his arms in front of his chest, making his muscles bunch up. And oh, she doesn’t know if it’s a good thing because it keeps her from looking down, or a bad thing because she’s definitely staring. "You got me drunk in a bar, dragged me to your apartment, whispered dirty things into my ear, did even  _dirtier_  things to me, and then tell me you don’t remember —

_Oh. God. Fuck._

"Please, please, I’m going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else," Clarke interrupts, groans into her hand to hide the incessant flush creeping up from her neck to her cheeks.

"Funny, I remember you telling me the exact opposite of that last night."

If he gets a concussion from the medical book she throws at him, it’s  _not_ her fault.


	2. "Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?" and "You heard me. Take. It. Off."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?" and "You heard me. Take. It. Off."

In her two years at the hospital, she has seen her fair share of varying stages of nakedness, and varying stages of ‘that can’t be good’, sometimes separately, sometimes simultaneously. So it’s not new seeing a grown man on white sheets, in a stage of undress that is definitely past the line of modesty. 

The one surprising factor in here is that it’s Bellamy Blake on her bed, splayed and only in his boxers and a dark tank top. He’s staring at the ceiling, sweating profusely as if he’s just come from his workout (which is not _hot_ , at all — she’s just a bit wound because  _what the hell_ ). Sure, she has asked him to apartment-and-cat-sit for her, but there are limits. Her gaze lingers on his chest, rising up and down in ragged breaths, before snapping out of it with a loud,

"Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?"

His head snaps abruptly to the direction of her voice so fast she thinks he’ll break his neck, and she tries her best to make her face look stern and angry. She’ll blame the flush on her cheeks to anger, that’s right.

"Great, Clarke, you’re here," he says, breathless and — wait, breathless? "I-I need you to look at this — " he gets up from his position, not at all deterred by her glare, and turns his back on her and lifting his tank top with one hand, displaying a huge splatter of bruises on the gold of his skin, varying color (blue, red, black, yellow).

"Holy shit, Bellamy," she exclaims, rushing to his side in record time. "What the hell did you do?"

He grunts in pain as he drops his tank top and slumps his weight on his thighs with his elbows. His breaths are coming in short and ragged - it gets Clarke’s worry to worsen. “I was… up on the roof, your goddamn spider-cat didn’t want to come down… I…” he wheezed and coughed, so Clarke takes his face in her hands and looks into his eyes. 

"Take your top off," she orders, and drops her hands at her lap, already counting in her head the possible injuries from that high a fall. She’s listed about several when she notices that he hasn’t moved. "You heard me. Take. It. Off."

He’s lifting his top over his head when he speaks. “You don’t have to worry — she’s okay.”

Clarke shakes her head with a minute smile.

"You could have broken a rib or two in the fall and you worry about me worrying about my cat," she says. She prods at his back and hears him hiss. "Yep, broken bones, a couple of them. Maybe a fracture there as well. We need to get you to the hospital."

She gets up and readies whatever they will need when she feels a firm grasp around her wrist. When she turns, she is faced with a pout and an adorable petulant expression. “I don’t even get a ‘thank you’? Your cat is a hell spawn, I, at least, deserve a —

But he doesn’t get to finish that sentence because she’s already shutting him up with her lips on his. Despite the injury, his mouth opens eagerly under hers. Apparently, she’s not the only one surprised by the results of the day.


	3. 4. sexting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on semi-NSFW prompts on tumblr.

Okay, it’s the third call from Clarke that he’s ignored, and it’s either she’s gonna be gloriously pissed, or eternally so.  _But_  he’s specifically told her to not bother him tonight - out of all the possible times - because tonight, he’s  _this_  close to catching the perp and he does not need any distractions - fuck - his phone vibrates on his dashboard again.

It goes silent before he can even reach for it and tell her (politely, because he’s past the ‘being rude because I actually really like you’ phase - and they’re actually together now) to stop calling. But he reaches for it nonetheless to at least send her a text when he pauses because there’s already one from her.

His brows shoot up in amusement when he reads what it says.

_Clarke: What are you wearing?_

He types back, pouring all the sarcasm he can muster into as little text as possible. 

_Bellamy: My bikini - what do you think? I’m at work, Clarke._

_Clarke: Well, that was the wrong way to start._

_Clarke: Let me just redo that - how about you imagine what I’m wearing now?_

He furrows his brows in confusion. Why?

_Bellamy: Why would I do that?_

Bellamy waits, now distracted, thanks to this woman.

_Clarke: Because there’s these really soft panties that I found in the store today and I’m thinking maybe I’d try them on. Slide them up my thighs first - then feel them against me at last._

Holy shit - fucking - is she serious right now? He’s fucking working and she’s fucking sexting him and now he’s imagining her doing just that and he’s goddamned hard right now - fuck.

_Bellamy: Clarke, stop this right now!_

She doesn’t, of course, and ignores that particular message.

_Clarke: I don’t know, I feel so turned on right now, maybe I’d just lie in bed in just these panties. It’s so hot anyway, there’s no way I’d be able to relax with a shirt and a bra._

Bellamy bangs his head on the steering wheel because goddammit just picturing Clarke sprawled on the bed wearing nothing but a flimsy cloth around her hips - well there’s the reason for the heat in his groin. (He also has a thing for when she gets off on her own, so there goes his sanity.)

He grits his teeth and types up a reply, his fingers tapping hard on the screen as if she’d be able to measure his lust just by doing so.

_Bellamy: 30 mins._

_Clarke: Hm too long. Better get this started then._

_Bellamy: 20 fucking mins._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment or a kudos on your way out! Or come yell at me on [tumblr](http://hooksandheroics.tumblr.com)!


	4. playing footsie under the table in a meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another short drabble prompt from days ago. :)

He officially hates Clarke Griffin.

It’s a statistics meeting - he’s to pitch in at any moment now, and he has some really great ideas, for the record, but it’s very hard to concentrate when the table’s too narrow, so narrow  _someone’s_  sharp shoe is jabbing at his leg. He shoots daggers at the woman in front of him, she shoots him an innocent look back, as if she’s just the happiest little flower. 

“…the last few months - namely June to August - had given really impressive numbers…” Kane drones on, and that’s about the only things he can hear over the blood roaring in his ears because now she’s tracing a long line from his ankle to the crook of his knee - slow, deliberate, fucking hot.

He tries to breathe in deep, tries to control the urge to ball up the paper in his hands and throw it at her (or just maybe fuck her on the conference table until it erases the smug look on her face - it’s infuriating and a goddamned turn on). He shakes his leg to ward her off, but of course, ever the persistent woman that she is, just transfers her attentions to the inside of his leg. Fucking hell. Fuck Clarke Griffin. (Now he’s thinking again about fucking Clarke Griffin on the table - not a helpful thought.)

A shiver runs down his spine, and it’s all it takes for him not to groan on the spot, in front of ten other colleagues. Of fucking course, that’s the moment she chose to bite her lip at him, as her eyes get darker. The way he clenches his jaw makes that muscle pop on his cheek, one thing he knows she likes.

She gasps that little gasp and he knows he got her there. 

* * *

They christen the third floor supply closet, knocking over buckets and bottles in their haste. And if he bites at her neck to leave a mark, well, she started it.


	5. "Wait... what did you call me?"

It’s too hot, her skin feels too tight, and there’s a heaviness in her chest that wants to be relieved - but she can’t speak, can’t make a noise, lest she wants them to be discovered. Besides, he’s already too smug for his own good, she doesn’t need to prove how weak she gets when he kisses behind her ear, or when he chuckles against her skin, or when his fingers trail up her thigh way underneath her skirt.

A tin pail clatters as he moves her backwards and pins her to the wall with his body, caging her with his arms on either side of her head. He’s quiet in his staring, a ghost of a smile etched on his lips as his dark eyes jump all over her face. He looks relaxed, content even - and that’s - that’s not how this works. So she plants her palms on his shoulders and drags him down until he’s kissing her again, tongue insistent against her own.

She swallows his grunt of surprise as her hands travel down to his belt buckle, fumbling until it undoes, until his zipper comes down, until she’s taking him into her hands. He jumps when she wraps her fingers around him, pressing further into her grip. 

His hands seize her cheeks, pulling away and tilting her head up to meet his hooded gaze. She loves how his chest heaves and presses against her breasts, loves how dark his eyes are, and how dazed he looks knowing this is all her doing. And then he speaks and her thighs clench together, the bout of heat almost too much.

“ _Akin ka_ ,” he whispers, rough and low, his words caressing and stoking the fire between her legs into a fiercer life. She hates him - hates how he knows this will one day be her undoing, the foreign words rolling down his tongue with ease. There are a lot of multi-lingual assholes in this firm, but only he can make it sound sexy and hot. (She loves it.)

She kisses the words out of his mouth, the taste of them heavy and sweet on her tongue as he continues to move until her skirt is lifted up way above her hips. “You love it when I do that, don’t you?” he chuckles as he kisses down her ear.

“Shut up,” she retorts weakly, biting his shoulder through his shirt. “Wait… what did you just call me?”

He laughs again and she hates how this has as much effect in her as his speaking in his mother tongue. “Really gets you going, huh?”

She tightens her grip around his length, and then claps a hand on his mouth, his groan muffled behind her palm. He retaliates with lifting her up so that her legs can go around his waist, and then pushing until he’s buried to the hilt.

He smirks at her high pitched squeak, and then there are no more words after that.

* * *

It’s Wednesday and she has a custody case to settle, so when he saunters over to her as she’s sifting through her notes, she knows it means trouble. There’s nothing else behind that confident stride but mischief.

He gets up close to her ear, breath hot. Her back goes rigid, grip on her papers tightening. “You’re mine,” he breathes. “ _Akin ka_ , you’re mine.”

She bites her lip to stop the unwanted moan from escaping, but damn him, she could not take her mind off of him the entire session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Tagalog speaking Bellamy here. ;)


	6. "I don't think that's how you do that."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [enoughtotemptme](http://enoughtotemptme.tumblr.com)

To be fair, the door to their bedroom was unlocked. And he’s had a shitty day. So when he walks in on her with her skirt rucked up to her hips, her blouse down to the last unbuttoned button, legs splayed wide, eyes closed and breathing heavy, cheeks flushed - well, he’s glad he’s taken an early leave from work.

She paints a picture he can never erase from his mind - and he specializes in reading people, comes with being a detective and all, so he knows she’s in haste. Barely getting out of her clothes, fingers frantic and quick, noises needy and rough. He’s a little bit disappointed that he’s not invited. But, oh well, he can remedy that.

He leans against the door frame, arms crossed in front of his chest, a smirk placed on his lips. “I don’t think that’s how you do that,” he says, and watches as she startles, her fingers pulling out of her cunt with a vulgar wet noise. She sits up, eyes wide and embarrassed, but still aroused. His grin only widens.

“I-I thought you wouldn’t be here for another couple of hours - that’s why I - “ she stammers, only cut off when he strides towards the bed and sits beside her, taking his shoes off and untying his tie, holding her gaze. 

He knows why, doesn’t need for her to explain. It’s been weeks since the last time they’d had real sex. He’s been busy at the station, and her at the hospital. They only had time for fingers and mouths at the wee hours of the morning, but even those were quick and leave them wanting for more. (That may be a reason to why he’s taken an early leave, but he’s not sharing that to his boss.)

He starts unbuttoning his shirt, but her eager hands halt his movements, taking to the task herself. She loves doing this, loves slowly undressing him, making her hot and bothered even more, so he lets her. Instead, he kisses her, pouring all that pent up want in his gut to her lips, swallows her small stuttering moans and growling at the way her nails scratching thin red lines on his chest.

He pushes her gently until her back is on the mattress once more, his lips unrelenting on her neck and her chest. She threads her fingers through his hair and brings his lips to hover above her own. And then she smiles that freaking sexy smile at him, as if she knows she’s got him wrapped around her finger.

“Show me,” she whispers, tugging at his hair, an unbridled moan escaping his lips. “Show me how it’s done, then.”

And well he’s never one to back down.


	7. "What do you mean it doesn't work like that?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [thatweirdparamedicstudent](http://thatweirdparamedicstudent.tumblr.com).

She hates Bellamy Blake, it’s official.

She hates his guts, hates his smirk, his hold over most of the firm’s employees, his damn suits. He also hates her, she’s pretty sure about that - if the way he’s hovering over her with that infamous smirk on his lips, and the way his tongue darts out to taste her, lick her juices from his lower lip, and the fact that he’s brought her to what felt like her third orgasm of the night are any indication.

Her chest is still heaving, muscles still tingling and twitching, and he’s looking a little too smug for her liking, so she grabs him by his cheeks and pulls him down for a bruising kiss. She loves the deep groan he makes at the back of his throat, loves that she knows he’s hard and straining underneath his boxers

Her hand slides down his chest, caresses his stomach, revels in the way he twitches under her palm, and then down still until she’s stroking him through the fabric of his underwear. He swears, low and rough, presses against her hand even more - his control slipping, if she says so herself. He groans again, and stills her hand with his fingers around her wrist. “Wait - I’m not done with you yet,” he mutters as he kisses down her neck.

Her small choked laughter reverberates in the small space between their bodies. “It doesn’t work like that, Blake,” she says, grabbing at his hair and pulling until he’s face to face with her. 

“What do you mean it doesn’t work like that?” he asks, and oh, he knows just where this is going, and they both know it. 

She smirks at him, watches as his eyes follow the deliberate movement of her lips. She shifts, brings her leg around his waist, and pushes and twists until she’s on top, her hair falling around her face as he stares down at him. He smiles, slow and seductive and hot and no matter how many orgasms, she still feels the start of arousal spark within her. She hates that he can do this to her. But she loves that she’s not the only one affected.

“I mean,” she drawls, and grinds against his hard length pressing against where she wants him most. He groans, his neck arching as his fingers tighten against the skin of her hips. There would be bruises there tomorrow, reminder of this twisted game they’re playing, but she doesn’t mind. “It’s your turn.”

He grins at her, feral and wolfish. There are no more words, just the sound of them, skin meeting skin, deep groans and heavy moans - this game they’re playing, it’s wicked and bad and the perfect recipe for destruction. But they can’t stop.


	8. "your place or mine?" "ours!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by Anonymous on Tumblr.

It’s probably a good thing that Clarke had insisted on a simple dress because then it wouldn’t be possible for Bellamy to tease the outside of her thigh as they sat listening to Miller speaking about  _star-crossed lovers but not in the traditional way_  (which is really pretty exaggerated, if you were to ask Clarke), and it wouldn’t be possible for her to feel his fingers tracing swirling patterns on her knee, up to the inside of her thighs through the thin white fabric.

She wants to glare at him, but everybody’s watching and she ought to be in her best behavior tonight. Or else she’s going to receive two separate verbal beatings from two of her friends.

But still, it’s inappropriate for a man this good-looking in a suit to have talented fingers as well. Also, impossible. So she decided to test it out in the bathroom with him, letting him pin her hands with his hand wrapped around both her wrists, high above her head.

(She has tested this hypothesis before, but  _science_.)

He smirks at her because ever since the start of the ceremony, she’s been talking about how his slicked back hair is just begging to be mussed up good and proper - during sex, of course. And now, with her hands trapped and unmovable in his grip, she wants to curse at him. 

He bends his neck to ghost his lips over her pulse point, slow, steady, hot, and infuriating. This is just so him to drag her agony longer - she has to rub her thighs together as she arches her neck to give him better access. She feels him smirk against her skin - so smug, so stupidly hot.

So she raises her leg to drag a knee up his thigh until it grazes the bulge in his slacks, and he exhales a stuttered gasp against the skin of her neck at the contact. It’s her time now to smirk. He retaliates with raising his head and capturing her lips with his, the kiss demanding and heavy, and hot, his teeth nipping at her lower lip, tugging at it, making heat pool low in her stomach.

His other hand lifts to run a feather-light touch along the back of her ear, where she’s most sensitive, and her eyes close on instinct (he’s discovered this weakness of hers one night during the first week of their relationship and hasn’t stopped using it since then - it’s been two years, you’d think she’d get used to it by now but - ), down her neck, until he’s skimming the valley between her breasts revealed by the low neckline of her dress.

She curses. She had picked this one because she knew it would drive him crazy, she didn’t know it would in turn make him want to drive  _her_  crazy. He kisses down her neck as his traveling hand bunches her dress up until he can skim the waistband of her lacy panties.

She moans at this, more in protest than pleasure because she had been saving this particular lingerie for tonight, when they’re alone in a bedroom, not cramped in a bathroom.

He pulls away and chuckles, voice thick with arousal. “What - you thought I was going to drag you here to  _just_  makeout?”

“Bellamy,” she whines, opening her eyes to find him watching her with an amused expression. “I’m saving this for tonight - when you can fuck me and nobody’s privy to me screaming your name.”

His smirk drops and his eyelids flutter as his eyes drop to her mouth hungrily, his lips parting on a ghost of a warm breath and she knows she’s got him there.

He groans and drops his forehead to her collarbone, his lips touching her skin when he speaks. “Fine - your place or mine?”

She laughs at this, bright and bubbly, and he lifts his head, laughing with her. “Ours, you idiot. We’re already married, it’d be weird not to share the same space just because you snore like a gorilla.”

He nips at her neck playfully at this, but kisses the spot with such tenderness she thinks her knees would give out if it weren’t for his weight pinning her against the door. “Okay,” he replies, no fight in there, just quiet contentment. He kisses her again, which starts out sweet and soft, but just like them, it escalates and deepens, her previously dulled arousal sharpening to focus.

She tugs at bottom lip and tilts her head back to pull away, her eyes stern. “Later. After all this shit’s done, okay?”

He pouts at her, but releases his grip around her wrists and helps her adjust her dress to make it look exactly like they had  _just_  made out in the bathroom and  _not_  almost had sex. 

She thinks it’s passable, but when she exits the bathroom with a stern ‘you, exit five minutes after I do’ to Bellamy, she receives a saucy wink from Raven and an affronted but approving nod from Octavia (she doesn’t know how the younger Blake managed it, but that was totally what she got from her expression). 

Bellamy just smirks at her when he receives the same looks from their friends not five minutes later.


	9. "Excuse me, do you happen to have an extra towel?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by [bellamymontague](http://bellamymontague.tumblr.com) on tumblr.

The funny thing here is for Bellamy, for someone like him who really loves his job as a high school History teacher, time flies whenever he gets into it -- really gets into it, like full-steam-ahead into it. Most of his students may not like whatever he’s babbling about, but they seem to love the side stories about Patroclus, or  _that one maiden in that one story_. 

But sitting on his beaten couch, knees bent at an awkward angle because of how low it sags, with the coffee table digging into his shins, the clock at the wall above the opening to his kitchen mocking him with every  _slow_  tick of its mechanical hand in time with the pattering of the storm outside, he now detests how draggy time actually is.

Especially when there’s a (probably naked) lady in his shower, taking a hot bath. And not just any lady -- it’s Miss Griffin. Clarke. Clarke Griffin, resident Art teacher of the blonde-tresses, modest sundress-wearing, red-lipstick bearing kind. The one that shoots him tight-lipped, coy smiles from across the cafeteria, over the heads of their students as he devours a turkey sandwich, the one that burns his skin through the layers of his clothing with just the touch of her hand as she pleads for him to  _‘please help me reach that box up there on the top shelf, o giant one’_ , the same one that argues with him about the Byzantine era and the spread of Christianity and then sticks her tongue out at him just because she thinks he’s an idiot. And then, of course, he will not shut up just because it riles her up and it tinges her cheeks that shade of pink that he so loves.

That one. That infuriating one. Also the one he’s always wanted to kiss ever since that first day a couple of years ago, when he had picked a piece of colored paper from her hair, and she had taken his hand to inspect it with her brows furrowed. “Hm,” she had said. “Thanks for saving me from embarrassment, hero.”

“You’re welcome, princess,” he had replied.

This started out innocently enough, to be honest. He was trying to be a gentleman because her car is in the shop and she always opts to walk to her apartment block, and it’s just -- he really enjoys her company, okay? So he offered to walk her to her door, which is like a couple of blocks past his, but whatever.

Apparently, the weather is angry at him, or something, because not five minutes into their walk, just when they were getting to the peak of their argument about the long and winding morals of Beowulf, the sky started to rain on them.

“Your apartment,” she shouted amidst the roar of thunder.

“What?”

“Your apartment, it’s nearer, right? Let’s just -- come on,” she took his hand and led him to his apartment building, dripping water on the elevator floor until they’re at his door and it’s too late to protest, because she’s shoving him inside, taking her cardigan off, and then her shoes.

“W-what are you doing?” he choked, not particularly proud of the octave his voice had gained.

“You don’t mind me taking a shower and borrowing some of your clothes, do you?” she asked, her fingers pausing on the zipper of her dress already three-quarters undone. 

Guess what his answer was?

Yep, the girl in his shower is definitely there because he has absolutely zero power whatsoever to say no to her.

So, he’s sitting on his sofa, dripping wet, waiting for her to exit so that he can be his awkward self around her more, seeing as it’s a definite turn on for him to see her wearing one of his shirts --

The door to his bathroom, the one just two strides away from the couch (he has a really small apartment, and he’s never been so resentful of that fact), opens up, wisps of steam escaping as a decidedly  _very_  naked lady stands leaning against the doorjamb, a pensive expression on her face. Very unfazed by her state of undress in front of her colleague. He, on the other hand, is very,  _very_  fazed.

“Excuse me,” she says, running her fingers down her wet hair, biting her lip in that coy way that makes his chest tight and his breathing stop momentarily. “Do you happen to have an extra towel?”

He gets up and rushes to his bedroom, grabbing the other towel that he keeps there, walking up towards her, exerting a Herculean deal of effort not to let his gaze wander down before realizing --

“Wait, what happened to the one I gave you earlier?”

She smiles at him under her lashes, that one smile that always says ‘you’re an idiot’, taking the towel in his hands. Somehow, his grip doesn’t let him let go of it until he’s answered. 

“This one’s for you,” she exhales, and then tugs at the towel in his death grip, dragging until she can press her mouth to his.

Her hands rise to cradle his face, her tongue skimming past the seam of his lips, and he opens to her without thought. A breath goes out of his lungs when he registers that she has successfully managed to back them into the bathroom. She stumbles a little, and his arms brace against the tiled wall, caging her with his body, pushing forward until they’re pressed together, his thigh in between her legs, her chest heaving against his.

It takes all his strength, but he manages to pull away just far enough to utter words. “I -- you --

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you ever since you saved me from embarrassment two years ago,” she pants against his mouth, and he wants to kiss her again, deep and slow, but she’s not done talking. “And then you  _had_  to take your shirt off that time during football practice -- and I just... I wanted to do more than kiss you.”

He dives in, kissing her, devouring and savoring, until she’s breathing heavily into his mouth. “Me, too,” he says as he kisses down her neck, tasting the beads of water trickling down her skin. “I wanted to... I wanted to do more than kiss you -- I mean --

“Shut up,” she chuckles breathlessly, grinding into the hard bulge in his wet slacks, stealing his breath not for the first time that day. “Just take off your clothes already.”

This time, though, he does shut up and does more than kiss her.


	10. "Made an obscure literary reference, and I'm the only one who got it."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by [enoughtotemptme](http://enoughtotemptme.tumblr.com).

The truth to the matter is Clarke doesn’t hate Bellamy Blake. Per se. 

She maybe hates his guts because he’s one of the only few people brave enough to take against the Wallace Inc. case, and maybe hates his charm because it works so well on literally anybody he directs it to -- works a little too well with  _her_  charm in the courtroom that even Clarke, in her own logical, and very sound mind, would think that one more wink sent her way would clue everybody and their mothers in on the secret that they’re fucking on the side.

That, too, she thinks. She hates getting all hot and bothered like a hormonal teenager whenever she senses that he’s about to use that careful dip in his tone to press a particularly important point, she hates that her thighs clench on their own when he does, when his voice gets all rough and low and he does that thing with eye contact that can disarm bombs, if he so chooses. And she hates it so much when he knows that he has this power over her, and he teases her about it with fingers trailing up her thighs, unhurried and searching and  _hot_.

But then (and she will never admit to this, even at gunpoint) there are times that she’s  _certain_  she doesn’t hate him. Especially during those nights of staying up reviewing key documents, when his tie’s askew, when his hair is out of the style he so carefully maintains from running his fingers through it, when his blazer’s draped over the couch she’s sitting on, when his glasses are sitting low on his nose, when his jaw stretches in a strong yawn. 

She thinks it’s because he’s so unguarded, so uncaring about keeping appearances up, that she thinks it’s a bit (a lot) endearing. On the third yawn, she gets up from her couch and snatches the papers from his hand, ignoring his disgruntled expression, which looks more like a confused puppy to her, and takes his hand to lead him up off her couch, and into her bedroom.

He opens his mouth --  _I knew you couldn’t resist me; the couch would be alright; we still have like a zillion documents to go through_  -- but she’s having none of that. 

“Sleep, were going to sleep, not having sex,” she interjects before his first word even comes out. “The couch is not good for your old man back and the documents can wait til tomorrow morning.”

He closes his mouth (thank God) and smiles at her this dazed-looking, sleepy smile, like he’s glad she’s doing this for him. As if offering her bed instead of her couch is the best thing to ever happen in his miserable life. And then, as if to add insult to the injury, he backs her up against the closed door to her bedroom, pinning her with his body pressing up against hers, and kisses her deeply. The kiss is slow and languid and hot that it leaves her breathless when he pulls away, with her chest heaving against his, with her cheeks tainted with a blush that his finger traces.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, so close to her parted lips that she  _wants_  to kiss him again, but he’s already pulling away and unbuttoning his dress shirt and untying his tie.

Later, she crawls in under the covers and into the mold of his body, completely putting off thinking about this non-relationship that they have between them.

* * *

The morning after, they  _do_  have sex, which is nice. And also infuriating because he imprints with his tongue and mouth words onto the skin right above her hip that she’s too dazed to contemplate. All she knows, all she cares about is the way it makes her feel like she’s floating with pleasure.

And then, there are no more words anymore, until she’s gripping the hair at his nape, until she’s gasping and clenching around him, and he’s burying his face into her neck with murmurs of her name.

* * *

Later, that evening, she reevaluates her assessment of her feelings about Bellamy Blake and comes to the conclusion that she  _does_ hate him -- despite his help in winning the case against the Wallaces.

They’re at a bar, Clarke and their team, sitting in a secluded booth with their second round of beers and a large plate of fries and wings, celebrating, and  _he’s still not there_.

Clarke restrains for what feels like the fifth time from checking her phone and sending a death threat in the form of ‘if you’re dead in a ditch, I’ll kill you’ because it’s freaking raining and there probably are no ditches on his way to the bar, but she just likes getting the point across, when he shows up, wet as a puppy unceremoniously thrown into a puddle, he even shakes water from his hair like a puppy. (She needs to stop picturing him in her head as an adorable animal, it’s not helping with her mental assessment of him.)

“Sorry,” he says to their small group of friends, looking distracted and exhausted. “I was just -- taking care of things.”

“And you ran under the rain in haste afterwards?” Wick shoots, his raised eyebrows skeptical and judging. Bellamy returns it with an indifferent look.

“Yes,” he deadpans, and then takes the chair right across from Clarke, sending her a warm smile.

Miller shifts on his seat until his arm is free to go around Monty’s shoulders and then gestures at his wet plaid. “You wanna catch pneumonia?”

Bellamy blinks, as if only just realizing that he is indeed soaked. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, and then looks up and catches Clarke’s gaze, his eyes turning a shade darker as his fingers slip every single button out of their respective holes. “ _The more buttons you undo, she said --_ “

 _\-- the faster I become undone,_ she finishes in her mind. Oh God, she remembers those words. Remembers the way they felt on her skin in his breath that morning -- and the way he said it just now will make everybody think it’s just something he normally says -- but, goddamn him, her heart picks up and her skin feels too warm all of a sudden.

She turns to her beer and ignores the hoodie being thrown right across the table to Bellamy, probably completely missing the show of muscles, because the moment she raises her gaze, he’s fully-covered once more. And she’s angry.

The night goes by with her quiet seething, but fortunately, he does nothing more than ask if she’s okay (rather smugly, if she has a say) and if she needs another drink. That is -- of course -- until they leave for the night and he’s tugging at his borrowed hoodie, looking up warily at the rainstorm still pouring over New York.

She sighs and opens her umbrella, gesturing for him to join her. He takes her umbrella from her and hoists it at a height they’re both comfortable with. “Spend the night at my place,” she says. “I think I still have a few shirts of yours there.”

He huffs a laugh. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he replies, ducking his head to hide his wide grin.

“Why is that so?” she asks.

“Because I - ah - left my umbrella at your apartment,” he says, nervous and fidgeting and -- wait, what?

“How? You weren’t --

He cuts her off with a kiss, soft and lingering and  _very public_. “Shut up,” he whispers with a smirk pressed against the corner of her mouth. “I don’t want to spoil anything.”

He takes her hand and leads her to the two-block-trek to her apartment complex, silent and unresponsive to her inquisition until they’re at her door. He pauses and then turns around to face her, a grim expression so out of place on his face. It makes her itch with worry and concern because normally, he would just push her up the door and kiss her senseless, but he’s looking so nervous right now that her own stomach churns.

“Are you... are you alright?” she asks, placing a hand on his arm.

“What - yeah, I mean no, I mean - date me?”

She blinks at him, suddenly taken aback by the sudden onslaught of reactions circling in her head, spurred on by a seemingly innocent, seemingly simple question. Which, of course, in their case, is not.

This thing that they’re doing -- it’s never really something anybody would call ‘dating’. It’s sex. It’s heat and lust and feeling, not  _feelings_. Sometimes, the occasional talking, and then the soft, sweet kisses in the mornings after the evenings when he’s too tired to go back to his own apartment, and him cooking in her kitchen in nothing but his boxers, and the occasional urge to hold his hand whenever they’re walking together to work, and the smiles. And the lingering glances --  _fuck_.

She wants this.  _Fuck_.

“Clarke?”

“Yes.”

“What?” he asks, his eyes wide and unbelieving and bright.

She can’t help the smile on her lips. “Date me.”

She opens her door to a surprise, after making out with Bellamy in the hallway and then getting the stink eye from her elderly neighbor. Her bed’s covered with rose petals, and there are unlit candles on her night stand and on the floor, and there’s an unopened bottle of wine chilling in an ice bucket beside the bed. Her heart swells, but she faces him with an exasperated smile.

“Over the top, I know,” he says, chewing at his bottom lip. “I can --

“Shut up,” she interjects, raking a hand through his hair in that way that makes his eyes flutter shut. “It  _is_  over the top, but I like it.”

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, the line of poetry is from Michael Faudet's _Seduction_.


	11. Where There Are No Filters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Based on the prompt:** "you knocked furiously on my door to tell me to stop having loud sex but when i appear fully clothed in front of you, we both are disturbed by the thought of it being the old lady from above"

It’s no secret to the building that Clarke Griffin of apartment number 215 works graveyard shifts at the hospital, often coming home super early in the morning or super late at night -- which is not a problem to Clarke, nope. She loves her job, loves the ups and downs of it, the highs and the lows of it. Even John Murphy of apartment number 211 knows this -- and knows not to mess with Clarke’s sleeping schedule, because the one day that she gets off is a day deeply (and malevolently) treasured.

A fact which her next door neighbor, whom she’s never met nor seen nor know the name of, is not aware of.

She looks at her nightstand and glances at her digital clock, flashing 2:30 AM in angry, bright red numbers, and feels her head throb with built up fury. The wall banging and the distant moaning continue as she seethes, her mental image of her next door neighbor being mutilated in her mind.

Here’s what she knows about said neighbor: nothing, except that he is male, and very sexually active. Which, you know, makes sense. Except that it’s the second time this has happened, and every time it happens is during her most precious slumber after her killer Tuesday double shifts.

She slept through the first time it happened, her tiredness getting the best of her. But now, it seems impossible to get a shuteye when the participants of the loudest sex known to man are exceptionally vocal in tonight’s session. She’s starting to think (with her caffeine-induced, adrenaline-drained mind) that they’re doing this on purpose. And of course, with her rational brain pretty much turned off, she decides, as the banging (figuratively, and literally) continues, that she’s had enough.

She grabs a sweatshirt and practically marches out of her door, breathes in as she stands in front of the apartment next door and then raps on the hardwood as loud as she can (bruised knuckles be damned). There comes no response, so she does it again until there’s a clambering noise behind the door, a soft swear word. Next thing she knows, the door she’s heavily leaning on opens to --

Oh, alright. She didn’t expect that.

First of all, the disheveled hair is sticking up in every way possible, his dark eyes are narrowed to slits as if he had just woken up, his brows down low on his creased forehead, a very irritated look on his face -- he’s wearing a police uniform, unbuttoned, showing his affinity to not wearing undershirts (seriously?). He’s leaning on the doorjamb, glaring at her, and oh so distractingly toned in the stomach area, but other than that, he’s fully clothed. Which means…

“You’re not --

“Who’re you?”

They both speak at the same time, his slur revealing that yeah, she had just woken him. Shit.

“Clarke Griffin, your next door neighbor -- I thought you were -- I mean, god, it was just the sex is so loud --

His eyes widen at that, all slumber gone from his face, in turn replaced by morbid curiosity and disgust. “You mean, you’re not the one trying to out-bang Zeus?” he asks, crossing his arms across his distractingly toned chest. Okay, wow.

“No,” she shakes her head, and she’d say it’s because of her answer, but in truth, it’s because of his distracting self. “Then who --

A loud bang followed by another crash sounds from upstairs, and they turn their horrified stares at the ceiling. “Uh, is that…” he trails off, his expression terrified and scandalized, and she guesses her face is a mirror image to that.

“That’s Mrs. Rosetta,” Clarke confirms, shuddering at the image of her 89-year-old neighbor doing the dirty. Oh God, she once saw Mrs. Rosetta’s dentures fall out of her mouth during that one Christmas party some years back.

She hears him breathe a soft ‘holy shit’ before they turn their eyes back to each other. He scoffs at her, his lips turning up at the corners to a smirk that shouldn’t be that attractive to a sleepy police officer. “Sorry,” Clarke meekly says, ready to go back to her apartment and drown herself with pillows until her imagination calms.

But then his hand is shooting up to grab at her arm, his palm warm against her bare skin that she has to suppress a shiver. Goddammit, this stranger. “Hey,” he says as he guides her back into his personal space, closer than she never imagined she could get. Not that she had imagined it in the last two minutes. His uniform slips down his shoulder as he does so, and really. Goddammit. “How about we get coffee… tomorrow?”

Yeah, and maybe show Mrs. Rosetta what ‘loud’ really means, she thinks smugly.

His eyes flutter and his lips part in what looks like surprise. “Yeah, that, too,” he breathes as a small smile plays on his lips. Oh God, she said it out loud.

“Yeah, it looks like you have no brain-to-mouth filter when you’re sleep deprived,” he replies, laughing quietly at her wide eyes. “Why don’t you get some more sleep?”

“And then that coffee,” she confirms reluctantly. He licks his lips and sends her another genuine smile.

“Yeah, that coffee.”

She walks back to her apartment, silently berating herself for not even asking for his name. And then shrugging it off because she actually has the chance to do so on that coffee date.

It turns out his name is Bellamy Blake, he is indeed a police officer, he likes his coffee black and with a truckload of sugar, and powdered donuts for breakfast. And that he can take her to his bed, and really prove how loud they can be until the neighbors complain about it.

Can’t say she minds.


	12. "That ass is mine, she can't have it."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by Anonymous on tumblr. :)

Bellamy can maybe say, up to this day, that his relationship with Clarke Griffin is nothing  _but_  hostility - and sometimes, maybe even a smidgen of care, if he’s being cautiously optimistic.(Optimism was never in his area of expertise, but treading this sort of care-hate limbo with Clarke is giving him vaguely bright expectations. Never mind that this massive crush is one-sided.)

But here she is, drunk, sprawled on his couch because she  _‘locked myself out of my apartment, Bellamyyyyyy, take me to yours’_ and he’s nothing if not a good samaritan.

He kneels on the floor beside her head and tucks a tuft of hair away from her face. She grins up at him, horribly inebriated and goofy that he returns it almost immediately. “You’re not going to puke on my floor, are you?” he asks, soft and adoring, as he finds himself not really caring whether she does or not, as long as she’s not doing it in an alley somewhere.

She shakes her head and closes her eyes as his fingertips trace her flushed cheeks. 

“Clarke,” he says, her skin warm against his palm. She opens her eyes and they seem bluer than ever, more sober than she actually maybe feels. She’s beautiful, and he’s helpless. “Why did you sucker punch that woman in the bar?”

She giggles, hiccups, and then buries her face in the cushion of his couch. “She’s flirting terribly with you,” she says, after a moment, her eyes peeking up at him with an almost shy gaze.

“Yeah, but --

“That ass is mine, she can’t have it,” she pouts, her hand lifting to thread her fingers with the palm he has on her cheek - and he feels his breath catch. She can’t possibly mean that. For all that is Clarke Griffin, she is - was - never crass with her language, even when she’s arguing with him. The princess, with her proper language and all. This - this is not her. (His cautious optimism perks its head up.)

“Well, I am nobody’s property,” he says, his voice weaker than his joke. 

“I’m just saying,” she murmurs, her thumb brushing the back of his hand. “If we, hypothetically, were dating, that ass is mine.”

“You have an abnormal fixation with my ass, Clarke,” he teases, and finds it futile to fight the giddy feeling in his chest. This is extremely-drunk-Clarke, but if he is to have nothing in his life, at least he has this. 

“You have a nice ass,” she whispers. Her eyes flutter shut and her breath fans out on his face, and he knows he’s kneeling too close, so he starts to move away. But her hand, the one locked around his, does not let him get up.

“Clarke, you’ve got to let me go. I need to get you a glass of water.”

She makes a distressed noise at the back of her throat and he settles with just staring at her half-asleep form. 

“Bellamy.”

“Yeah?”

“Can we... date? Like, not hypothetically?”

He is taken aback, all of a sudden. “Of course, but only if you remember this in the morning.”

“Deal.” And then she lets go of his hand, warm and tingly from where her fingers were woven around.

* * *

 

She remembers it in the morning, along with the sucker-punched-lady and a deadly hangover, but at least he’s got a date when  _‘I’m not looking and feeling like the Walking Dead’_. (His optimism says “I told you so”.)


	13. Things you said when you thought I was asleep.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by [bellarkerevolution](http://bellarkerevolution.tumblr.com) on tumblr.

The rain outside the tent patters wildly, the sweet smell of it hitting the crops they have been proudly producing lulling even the sturdiest of men to sleep – it certainly has Bellamy under its spell, that’s for sure. He sighs and turns his face on her lap towards the ceiling, eyes shut and breathing rhythmic.

Days like this means they can finally sleep in, finally relax. (And after last night’s sleepless review of the territorial maps and boundaries, they deserve this.) Even when Bellamy rose that morning and got dressed, seemingly mechanically, she had pulled him back to bed with a hand around his wrist and a gentle smile.

She cards her fingers through his hair, reveling at how long it had gotten. She’s got to remind him to get his hair cut to a manageable length, even if she has to chase him around camp. The thought of it makes her laugh, makes her unbearably happy that she almost misses the satisfied noise he makes at the back of his throat.

She bends over and ghosts her lips on his forehead and he relaxes even further. “I’m happy, Bell,” she whispers against his skin, and then kisses his forehead again, just because she can.

A hand lands gently on her cheek, warm and coaxing, his face angling up to catch her lips in his. The kiss was slow and content and lingering, and when he pulls away, he’s smiling sleepily. “I’m happy, too.”


	14. Things you said with many miles between us.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by Anonymous on Tumblr.

He finds it one day amidst the scattered things on one of the desks in the medbay, just as Abby’s finishing the stitches on his forearm. She leaves before he can comprehend just what to do with it, so he takes it back to his tent and lets his heart be gripped with the tendrils of longing he’s been fending off for so long. It’s Jake’s watch – Clarke’s watch.

It feels heavy in his palm, the glass on its surface dotted with flecks of dried blood, scratched. Its hands don’t work anymore, frozen at a particular time, and it reminds him of dead eyes gazing sightless at the ceiling and an abandoned child. He shakes the thought out of his head and tries to smile because when she left, he thought he’d lost her.

He learns how to wash away the haunting memories from the small thing, and instead learns how to remember Clarke whenever he sees it. He traces its cracks and tries to think of her on Unity Day, the first one on the ground, and the way her smile made him feel warmer than the cup of moonshine he was nursing that night. Or the feeling of her arms around his neck, her sigh against his skin, the light in her eyes as if she couldn’t believe he’s alive. 

One night, he skims for it in the darkness of his tent and lays it on his chest as he breathes in shakily. “I can do it,” he tells it. “I just don’t want to do it without you.”


	15. Things you said while you were driving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted on tumblr by Bridget. (savedbythebellamy)

His truck is the worst truck in the world. Ever. And she doesn’t have a problem speaking her thoughts about it, especially since they’re in a four-hour drive to his hometown and the music is terrible and he’s not letting her touch the stereo.

“I can pull over and drop you off at the side of the freeway,” he says, his brows raised, his gaze flitting to her slumped form at the passenger seat. 

“You wouldn’t.” She bangs her head on the glass, her breath fogging it a bit. 

He laughs, and sure his laugh is pretty but his truck is still the devil’s carriage. “Try me.”

She sticks her tongue out at him, and he sees it. But other than that, they’re silent until the next stop over and they’re arguing over which sandwich is better. When he steals a bite of her turkey sandwich, she counts it as a win. He grins at her, mouth full of turkey and tomatoes, and she’s still a loser.

They drive again, but this time, he lets her choose the playlist and she plays Taylor Swift’s 1989 album. He says he loathes it, but when she sees him mouth the lyrics to ‘Bad Blood’, she makes sure never to let him live it down.

An hour later, he pulls over at the side of the freeway. 

“You gonna drop me off?” she teases, but in reality she’s afraid he will. 

He shakes his head and turns towards her, eyes soft and smile small. “You know that I love you, right?”

Yes, she does. He’s said it before, but every time he does, her heart still jumps and she still flushes. “Isn’t that why you’re taking me to see Aurora?”

“Yeah,” he nods and leans forward, his gaze dropping to her lips. O _h, okay, alright._  She angles her head towards him, but before their lips touch, he pulls back a bit. “And you… you love me, right?”

She blinks. “Bellamy, of course.” Apparently, that’s all he needed because he surges forward, their lips crashing. The kiss is dizzying and heated and languid that she feels her chest warm with his caresses, even more when his hand leaves the steering wheel to cradle her face. They stay like that for what felt like hours, but in reality were just a few minutes, and then continue to drive.

* * *

 

The cemetery is quiet and peaceful and the sun is streaming through the spaces in between the leaves of the sturdy oak tree shadowing the grave. He smiles down at her and wraps his arms around her waist.  _Thank you_ , his eyes say. 

 _I love you_ , hers reply.


	16. Things you said that I wasn't meant to hear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by Mia on tumblr. (lordmxrphy)

The best thing about surprises is that Clarke loves them, and Bellamy has so much counting on the box of powdered jelly doughnuts in his hands. Clarke’s been sick all day, bolting upright that morning to stride right into the bathroom. She stayed a good half an hour in there, and he seriously was worried, but she just waved him off to work.

He hasn’t stopped thinking about her all day. Sure, she’s the strongest doctor to ever grace Ark Memorial and can probably maim a professional wrestler with just a tiny scalpel. But seeing her beaten down by what looked that morning like a stomach flu, he was reminded just how human she actually is. Sometimes he forgets.

So, turning the knob and opening the door as carefully as he can, he enters the apartment, lifting his feet with the stealth of a beloved History teacher. He doesn’t find her in their bedroom at the hallway, so he trudges towards the kitchen quietly, and that’s where he starts hearing her voice.

“…I’m taking care of myself fine, mom,” she is saying into the phone, her tone exasperated. “Of course he’s at work, he can’t miss a day. You know how much he loves his job – no, it’s not worth it. I’ll tell him when he gets back – just – mom, please don’t come over.”

Her flu’s not  _that_  bad, is it? If her mother wants to come over –

“I’m alright, I took at least ten pregnancy tests, I’m pretty sure – yes, okay, thank you. I’m happy, too. I’m – I just don’t know if he’s gonna be as glad –

“About what?” is his pathetic squeak as he steps into the kitchen, his throat dry and his chest painful. He’s not stupid, but he’s also not that much of an optimist. The topic of having children has always been present in past conversations, but they haven’t talked about it in a while and it just seemed like a distant thing – something that’s still miles ahead, something that he thought would come with a warning. And up until this moment, he has never considered how much he’d like a tiny human being calling him ‘dad’.

She turns around, eyes wide and jaw slack. “I’m gonna – I’ll call you back, mom. Bye,” she says to the phone, and then ends the call, the device clattering noisily atop the kitchen counter. “Bell, you’re – home. How much did you hear?”

“Not much,” he replies honestly, the box in his hands landing on the counter. “Just something about pregnancy tests. And things.”

“Well, uh, I’m pregnant.”

“You are?” Stupid come back, but he’s not really thinking straight at the moment.

“Said the ten or so pregnancy tests I took all throughout the day,” she replies, bowing her head as if this is something she should be ashamed of – and, oh my God, she’s pregnant. Oh my Lord – he takes the last few steps to reach her, to wrap her in his arms and lift her off the ground. Never mind her protesting squeak.

He recognizes distantly that he’s laughing and she’s crying and it’s pathetic, but he’s so fucking happy that it doesn’t really matter.

He sets her down on the ground and kneels so that he can lift her shirt and press his lips to the skin of her stomach, feeling her fingers thread through his hair and anchor there. She sighs.

“You’re okay?” she asks, and he closes his eyes, rests his forehead on her belly.

“Yeah,” he replies. “I was going to surprise you with the doughnuts.”

“Well, mine was better,” she says.

“Yes,” he laughs. It’s not much of a protest, but he lets her have this.


	17. "If you die, I'm going to kill you."

It happens, and it happens so fast she barely registers the arrow zinging past her cheek and planting somewhere behind her. She points her own at the trees, zeroes in on the movement behind a thick cacophony of leaves and twigs and shoots. A second later, a body drops to the ground, motionless.

Nothing else follows after that but a silence made by the sounds of the forest, quiet leaves rustling, and birds screeching, so she takes the time to let the blood roaring in her ears to calm.

She should have known, should have sensed it because that arrow is bound to hit someone, and her companions are as quiet as the dead.  _Dead_.

Miller has taken cover somewhere behind the large rocks lining the river, but Bellamy has been the one behind her, firing bullets at the trees. 

Clarke turns around and sees him on the ground, kneeling, blanched in the face, his automatic rifle lays forgotten on the ground beside him. His hands are hovering above the wooden arrow protruding from his side. He looks up at her, his eyes wide and in pain, a clear mirror of her expression – fuck.

He falls to the ground before she can even run to his side, so when she reaches him, she’s sick in the stomach and hard in breathing. “Miller!” she yells, and the next thing she knows, they’re hauling his prone form between them.

It’s a one-hour walk from camp, but they make it in less than half. They reach the med bay and he’s delirious – fucking poisoned arrows – that when they lay him on the stainless steel slab, he reaches for her face and tucks an errant lock of hair behind her ear.

It steals her breath (never mind that she’s actually out of breath) when he smiles at her. “You haven’t said one thing to me all the way back to camp,” he says, throat scratchy and voice rough. She’s amused he’s managed to string a long, coherent sentence.

“If you die,” she chokes out, because unlike him, she’s actually really scared. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

He laughs but it sounded pained and strangled. “That’s more like it,” he murmurs one last time before he goes under the effects of anesthesia that Jackson has injected into him.

* * *

A week and a half later, he’s up and running and annoying as ever, but the day he wakes up, she kisses him until they’re both out of breath. “So, no killing me?” he asks against her lips, pressing against the corner of her mouth.

“No,” she whispers back, but slaps his bare arm. “But try that again and I’ll make good on my word.”


	18. cont'd from "...with many miles between us."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kayla (kay-emm-gee) came into my askbox and attacked me with feels. This is a continuation from "things you said with many miles between us".

He loses it one day – the watch and, subsequently, his mind. But to be fair, he also loses a lot of blood. It’s an arrow to the shoulder blade, fairly shallow, but he blacks out from the poison and the pain, and when he comes to, he’s in the med bay, staring at the ceiling with cloudy eyes and a stinging absence around his wrist.

He’s had it for months, enough to have it be a mark around his wrist, the glaring loss of the band around his skin is daunting and scary –

“Bellamy,” it’s Octavia, her eyes searching his face and his shoulder for any signs of pain. 

He sits up despite her protests, despite the discomfort – maybe it’s in his pockets, did he take it off before the attack, before the hunting party? Did he leave it in his tent – he  _doesn’t, never takes it off_  –

“Calm down, Bell, it’s just a watch – we’ll –

He doesn’t register his words, but his sister’s eyes hold a terrifying resemblance to the fear in his. Next thing he knows, there’s a prick in his neck and the world goes dark once more.

* * *

He wakes to the noisy scraping of a steel chair against the floor. It stops right beside him just as he gains the strength to open his eyes. 

It’s Raven, straddling the back of the chair and staring right into his gaze, a fire and determination in her stare that’s familiar, now overwhelming him. “Sleeping Beauty, nice of you to join the land of the living,” she says, and her tone is grim, but there’s a smirk playing on her lips.

“Raven,” he croaks in greeting.

She’s quiet for a while, gnawing on her lip as if there are words she’s arranging on her tongue. So he stares until she breaks.

“We all miss her,” she says quietly, and his heart cracks anew because he knows exactly who she’s talking about. His hand goes to the band around his wrist, only to find it gone. He only has the time to sit up and try to look for it before she’s tossing something on his stomach.

“I cut my finger cutting glass to fit that thing, you owe me,” she says, smirks at him, and then she’s gone. 

He looks down and grasps it with almost numb fingers. The cracks aren’t there anymore, and the hands are moving now, and he wants to cry, but he smiles at the ceiling instead.

* * *

Clarke returns one day, and the next thing he knows, they’re plotting to destroy an artificial intelligence an ocean away. Murphy’s back, too, and the man that was once Thelonius Jaha. 

So he does what he does best: drown himself into the work that’s supposed to be done. (If it entails not ever meeting Clarke’s gaze, or not speaking to Clarke, or not being present when Clarke is, well it’s because there’s just so much more important things to do than to crack open the heart he has been steadily nursing back to an alright state.)

Still, she finds him at the back of camp one afternoon, chopping wood. He doesn’t hear her coming, so when she appears amongst the trees in his line of vision, he almost throws his ax at her.

“Easy, Thor,” she laughs quietly, walking towards him. His heart still jumps whenever she’s in proximity, but no one needs to know that. 

He fixes his mouth in a grim line and turns back to his chopping. “Thor has a hammer,” he murmurs almost to himself because he couldn’t help it, but she hears it nonetheless.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she says, and his ax freezes midswing. He looks at her and says nothing. Maybe she’ll go away if he stays quiet long enough. She doesn’t. “We have another nuclear bombing to stop, we need to band together and it’s not going to work if you’re – if we’re –

“I’m doing my job, you’re doing yours, what more is there to do?” he asks, and the absence of anger in his tone is a dead giveaway to the hurt he’s been trying to cage in.

“You need to talk to me, Bellamy,” she replies, and she’s hurt, too. But there’s a cloud that’s heavy and cold and it’s in front of him and he wants nothing more than to clear it away.

He buries his ax to the ground and stands more firmly. “Is this for the sake of humanity or for yours?”

She looks up at him, straight and honest and goddamn crystal clear. “It’s for me. I… I need you.”

“I don’t know how many times I’d fallen for that, but this time, I won’t.” It’s cruel, his tone is harsh, but there’s a bitter pain in his chest that’s frontlining his thoughts. “You left us, Clarke,” he continues, and then in a much quieter voice, “you left me.”

She moves to touch him, and he’s helpless, he loves her too much that he allows her to grasp his arm. 

“I know you needed it,” he says, closing his eyes to the incoming tears. “But I needed you, too.”

She’s quiet for a long while, long enough to let his heart settle in a slower pace, but when he opens his eyes, she’s so much closer, so much clearer, and she’s staring at his wrist. At his – her watch.

He sees emotions flit through her eyes like a silver screen, as they fill with tears and he figures out soon enough that the memories she’s replaying in her head aren’t the same ones in his. He lifts her chin with his fingers so that she’ll meet his gaze, and for the first time in a long time, he smiles at her again.

“I had this when I lost you,” he says. “Raven fixed it for me. You – it was my tether, my anchor. It reminded me of you, and I couldn’t just throw it away.”

“You don’t hate me.”

“I could never, even if I tried to.”

She kisses him after the words dissipated into thin air, and he’s wrapping his arms around her, just like before. This time, it’s him that’s thankful that she’s alive and she’s okay and she’s back – and that she’s kissing him, and he  _loves her_.

“Me, too,” she murmurs against his lips, pressing a grin to his cheek. He has a moment to catch his breath before realizing that he’s said it out loud.

Alright.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says against the skin of his neck. “I’m staying.”

“Good.”

And alright, they’re in the brink of a nuclear war, and that the world could be ending again, but she’s here and it’s okay. 


	19. things you do with your fingertips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by Chash (ponyregrets on tumblr).

Clarke would have blamed the rolling thunders booming in the sky for the sudden alertness in her bones, but it’s warm when it’s cold outside the tent, and her skin is on fire when everything outside is in deep slumber, and her breathing is erratic when there is, for once, calm and peace – all because –

“ _Bellamy_ ,” she breathes when he drags his calloused fingers across her lower stomach, so close – too close to where she’s aching the most that she squirms in anticipation. A firm hand turns her so that she’s on her back and he’s hovering above her, a sleepy smirk on his lips.

She knows he’s enjoying this, her heaving chest, her flushed skin, her irritated expression, all because he knows she likes it like this – slow, dragging,  _heated_. 

His eyes watch her every reaction, his smile growing wider with ever hitch of her breath, as if he’s drawing pleasure from her agony. She’s already trembling when his fingertips reach her heat, and she cries out at the light caress, his way of gratification – something that frustrates and exhilarates her at the same time. 

Bellamy knows it’s going to come to this, when the temperature gets too hot, when the teasing becomes too much, when he’s too smug, he knows that it’s in her nature to always move things along when it gets too slow.

So it’s only to his delight when she hooks a leg around his waist and pushes at him until he’s the one on his back and she’s the one straddling him. “I hate you,” she says.

“Show me,” he replies, all feral grin and smug bravado.  _Oh, he’s going to regret this._


	20. things you do with your hands

It’s raining when he wakes up, the sky dark for the time of day, the temperature too cold. The blankets that have been pulled down to his waist in his sleep failing at shielding him from the chill, the only part of him that’s warm is where Clarke’s arm is on the bare skin of his chest, and her breath at the side of his neck.

It’s a Saturday morning, there’s a gala later this afternoon at the museum, and it’s not even noon, but there’s a lot that needs to be done – final preps, pieces that are coming in late – and they  _need_  to get up or else, the paintings will have to hang themselves on the walls.

He turns his head to her sleeping form, feeling like the luckiest bastard in the world waking up next to quite possibly the most brilliant woman on Earth. And also the unluckiest son of a bitch at the same time because he is now tasked with waking her up – which always needs a bit of thinking if he wants to escape unscathed.

He starts with her cheeks, fingers drawing circles on skin, feeling them heat with the carefully light attention. She stirs a bit, lips parting when his thumb traces them, the desire in him clawing at his chest, wanting to be let out, wanting to  _kiss_  her. But still, it’s not the right time.

He goes next to her neck, down the soft skin, from her jaw to her throat, and she lays on her back unconsciously, still blissfully unaware. Her breath hitches when he follows with the ghost of his lips wherever his hands were, neck arching, softly moaning, still asleep.  _Good_.

He snakes a hand down her stomach, caressing her folds with deft fingers, reveling at the catch of her breath –  _any time now_  – and the rise and fall of her chest. He presses hot, wet kisses down her chest, pausing a bit to take her each breast into his mouth. 

She opens her eyes the exact moment he slides a finger into her heat, sleepy, dazed, surprised, and most importantly, aroused. A small moan escapes her parted lips when he starts moving, holding her gaze as he kisses down her stomach.

She threads her fingers through his hair and fists there, her hips moving in time with his fingers, her sounds getting louder.

“Bellamy,” she whines low in her throat, rough and  _so turned on_. He lifts his head and halts his hand as he takes a moment to appreciate this. Clarke, flushed, wanting, and beautiful. So beautiful. Damn, he’s so hard. 

“What?” he asks, as quietly, as roughly as her. 

She bites her lower lip, eyes dark and coy. “Kiss me,” she says. “ _Please.”_

This breaks him, and he surges up to claim her lips in his, rough and sweet, slow and deep, the way that they always are. He’s still surprised by all of this, by the fact that she loves him, although the thought of him loving her has been with him for the longest time, he honestly couldn’t remember a time when he doesn’t. But her – this – them, it feels like something new every day, even when the words aren’t always said, the sandwich on his desk every lunch time, the cologne on her neck that drives him crazy, the subtle change in the channel to the History Channel whenever they’re watching TV together – it’s there. And oh god, he loves her.

He rolls off of her when they’re done, breath coming in harshly into his lungs, sweat cooling on his skin, and turns his head to look at her equally disheveled form. Sated, content, and awake, just the way he likes it.

He grins. “You ready for the gala now?”

She frowns playfully and folds against his side, nuzzling his neck. “I could use ten more minutes, actually.”

“I think you’ve slept enough –

“Not for that reason,” she chuckles against his skin. And okay, it hasn’t even been five minutes, but he feels arousal stirring in him. 

“Fuck, Clarke,” he breathes low and raspy before kissing her again.

“That’s the plan,” she says. God, he loves her.


	21. the morning after dialogue

It is not the most curious thing when he wakes up and everything about last night comes rushing back behind his eyelids, even before he’s fully awake. He’s not in his room – no. 

Blonde, a fireball in disguise, lava underneath her skin. Her name’s Clarke. He liked her the moment she sidled up next to him, stole his glass of bourbon, and raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m gonna pay you back,” she had said before flagging down the bartender for another round.

There was a glint in her eyes as she told him about Raven and Wick, and Jasper and Maya, and her mother and Kane – all of these people just blank faces in his head, just characters in her story where her friends are happy and in relationships and she’s alone and lonely. 

There was a Finn in there somewhere, webbed with Raven, a mess of a story that ended with her dumping Finn, the cheater, and becoming friends with Raven, the mechanic. 

After that, it was a blur of more drinking, a hand at the back of his neck, and her teeth running along his bottom lip. He might have said some other embarrassing things, but she had grasped at his hair and had moaned into his mouth, and he was a goner.

Remembering it now stirs a lick of fire down his stomach even as his head throbs in pain. In retrospect, he shouldn’t have gotten as drunk as he had gotten because Clarke already had been on her way there, and as a decent human being, he should have at most made sure she’s well-hydrated and conscious enough to tell a cab driver her home address.  _At most_. But he had consumed more alcohol than he should have and – well. He doesn’t regret it,  _lord no_. It’s just that –

“Stop thinking,” a murmur sounds against the skin of his back, breath warm and comforting as the arm slung around his waist. She – Clarke – slowly disentangles their limbs and turns so that she’s on her back. He shifts so that he’s facing the ceiling as well, ignoring the delicate behind his eyes.

He turns his head to glance at her, tries to reassure himself that he indeed slept with one of the most beautiful girls he has ever seen, and then takes a moment to thank whatever god is up there because Clarke is glorious and naked. 

Which makes this a bit more disappointing because he might never see her again, if this is what he thinks it is for her. 

She finally opens her eyes, squints at the white ceiling, and then at him. To his delight, she gives him a small smile which sends his insides aflutter.  _Aflutter_. 

“Bellamy, right?” 

Good, she remembers. 

“Yeah, and you’re Clarke,” he says, his voice rough from disuse. “Glad we didn’t fuck each other’s brains out literally.”

She laughs and it surprises him, but in a pleasant way. In a way that made his skin tingle. There’s a desire stirring in his chest, but it’s not even a desire to kiss her. It’s just the simple desire to run his fingers through her hair and relive the feel of it against his skin.

Which makes this more difficult than it already was, so he gets up and takes a few seconds to let the hangover settle in his head. He groans – how much alcohol had he consumed for this hangover to be this intense? Fuck, he’s never touching alcohol ever again. Not even eggnog.

“Okay,” he mutters when he feels the nausea calm down a bit. “I know how this goes. I’ll just go get my clothes and I’ll be out of here in a minute.”

He moves to get up, but her fingers wrap around his wrist, and he’s still weak so he stumbles back on the bed and catches himself just in time not to crush her with his weight. His vision clears and he finds himself hovering over her, just inches away from the quiet smile on the curve of her lips.

“Stay,” she breathes, eyes on his mouth, and then leans in ever so slightly that he thinks she was going to kiss him, but then she’s speaking again. “You did say you weren’t looking for a one-night stand.”

“I said that?” he asks, and he must look so horrified because she actually giggles. He feels it reverberate in his chest, makes him feel warm.

“You don’t remember, but I actually did agree to your sentiment,” she says, a laugh still in her voice. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Right,” he nods, still blank about all the things that happened in between. 

It’s her turn to look embarrassed, lower lip trapped between her teeth. “Just so you know, I don’t normally sleep with the people I meet in bars.”

He raises his brows in question. “What – what miracle happened, then?”

She raises her eyes to him underneath her lashes, shy and adorable and fucking –  _wow, Bellamy, you’re screwed_. “You said the same thing, and I just, I don’t know. You’re also kinda really hot. So.”

“So,” he repeats, feeling a good kind of feeling underneath his skin, and a smile on his lips. “I’ll stay?”

She nods. “You’ll stay.”

He kisses Clarke again and pins her to the mattress with his weight because she’s amazing and naked on this bed, asking him to stay. And if she says so, then who is he to argue?


	22. "Have I entered an alternate universe...?" and "Well this is awkward..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by queenofchildren on tumblr. :)

This mission sucks, not because the portal had gotten them naked the moment it dropped them in an abandoned warehouse, but because she’s doing it with Bellamy Blake of all people. Of course it shouldn’t suck because the whole freaking universe depends on this, but fuck, it sounds ridiculous when she says it out loud.

“We should ensure that Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake meet and get along in this certain timeline because if not, then the universe implodes.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy shrugs, settling into the chair across from her with a devious smirk. “That’s basically it. Now, act natural, I’m here.”

Sure enough, Bellamy Blake, mathematician and Harvard professor in this life, is sitting himself on a booth five tables from where Bellamy Blake, time traveler and annoying partner, and Clarke Griffin, time traveler and doctor, are situated.

They’ve been monitoring their alternate universe selves for three days now, and to say it’s similar to their current relationship as of the moment is an understatement. (Not that there’s a  _relationship_ , but she did see him naked. And he’s got a great body. And she knows what he looks like in the nude. He also has the biggest heart Clarke has ever known, even being the asshole that he is. It’s just… very unprofessional to have a crush on her partner.)

(Well considering he was the first to be openly unprofessional, with that one time he undoubtedly stared at her naked form the night of their arrival. It was a natural reaction. And she could just be imagining the longing look past the evident lust in his eyes. She thinks.)

It’s hard when they’re bickering back and forth, never agreeing on little things like how to word “we need five more days to finish the Red Matter equation” in an email to their superior and on what color of marker to use. 

But every once in a while, the lab goes quiet. “They’re working  _together_ ,” Clarke had gasped, shock echoing off the small van they’re staking out in. The space is cramped and they’re hunched over a small network of monitors showing various parts of the lab, so naturally, his thigh is touching hers, and his face is unnecessarily close to hers. His eyes are trained on the unexpected display of camaraderie, and she would be too if he hadn’t just touched her thigh in surprise. Fuck this van, really. 

He scoffs and shakes his head. “They can actually be quiet,” he says, and his hand is still on her thigh and it’s burning her skin. “If they don’t finish the equation tonight, I’d wager one more night.”

She nods and keeps her mouth shut because if she so much as opens it to speak, she knew something pathetic would come out because he’s  _still touching her_. 

It takes another minute, watching their alternate universe selves toss each other calm comments and corrections and being  _so civil_. At one point, Bellamy, the one cramped inside the van with her, raises his eyebrows and laughs. “Look,” he points at the screen again. There’s the other Clarke, leaning on the desk, hugging her clipboard to her chest, grinning at Bellamy. “Look at your face – have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile at me?”

His line sucks. It’s the worst line in the whole universe, and she’s talking multiple ones. But when she turns her head to give him the most disdainful look known to mankind, she finds him smiling at her all soft eyes and – shit. She wants to kiss him.

His eyes widen a little bit, and he speaks before she figures out she said that out loud. “You can. I mean, kiss me.”

She remains frozen, all of a sudden very aware of how small the stake out van actually is, so he leans in and kisses her. 

It isn’t all explosive and shit because they’re in a small van all hunched and limited, and they’re trying to keep the universe intact, but he takes her bottom lip in his mouth and sucks until she whimpers, and she cards her fingers through his hair and anchors there until he groans into her mouth. They pull away, but not too far, foreheads still pressed against each other’s, so close they’re practically breathing each other’s air.

“This is unprofessional,” she murmurs, and she doesn’t mean it to be anything but an observation, but he chuckles and smooths her hair away from her face. 

“Well, we do know what the other looks like naked,” he says. “I think we skirted past unprofessional after that.”

She laughs and buries her face into the crook of his neck, feels him press a kiss to the crown of her head before hearing him mutter. “Well, this is awkward…”

She looks up in alarm, eyes finding the monitor immediately. And then regretting it as quickly. There they are, their alternate selves, making out on the desk like  _they_  were doing not a minute ago. 

And they look like they’re not stopping any second soon. Clarke reaches out and turns the monitor off, and then ducks her head to hide her blush. It looks like their alternate selves have breached the unprofessional as well.

Bellamy lays a palm on her cheek and turns her to face him. “Hey,” he says, soft and quiet. His eyes are going all over her features, as if memorizing. And there’s a glint of something else in his gaze. “Are you really sure we can’t watch that? There could be a crisis –

Clarke hits his shoulder half-heartedly, but she’s laughing too. 

Well, mission accomplished, she guesses.


	23. 5. angry kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by we-are-bellarke on tumblr.

Clarke doesn’t get angry the way most people do. In the two years of his co-living with her, Bellamy has noted a few tell-tale signs. The most telling would be that she takes out her sketchpad, opens it on a blank page and just stares at it. It wouldn’t mean much to a normal observer, but Bellamy also knows that if Clarke’s really going to do an art thing, she’d have that little knot in between her brows that basically says “do not disturb, thinking of nude women on leather couches” in bold red letters.

She doesn’t scrunch her face up, make her eyebrows meet at the center of her forehead, does not pout. She just… she just looks like she’s trying so hard to understand why she’s angry. Like she’s trying to see why people did the things they did. She’s that kind of person.

Sure, she has glared at him before, raised her voice at him, but… Bellamy knows, alright. There are levels to her anger, and when she’s like  _that_ , he knows not to bother her. 

But it has been two weeks since they kissed, and he’s pretty sure there’s this relationship between them now. Not the previous sexual-tension filled, disguised-as-dislike, fighting-as-foreplay one that they had. This one, he’s pretty sure, means he can ask things like:

“Are you okay?”

She looks up from her sketchpad, brows furrowed in surprise and confusion. “Yeah, why?”

He doesn’t say anything, just gives her a knowing shrug. She looks like she’s debating whether to tell him or not, and he waits. When she looks up again, she’s worrying her lip between her teeth, her arms open, reaching out to him. He doesn’t take more than a few seconds to reach her on the couch, and she doesn’t take more than a few seconds to wrap herself around him. 

“What do you need?” he asks, again, despite the weird angle and her hair in his mouth.

“Kiss me,” she says, weakly. 

He pulls away and kneels in front of her, kisses her softly until the stiffness in her shoulders melt, until she breaks away and buries her face at the crook of his neck. She does not cry, but she shakes. And when she’s steady, he stands and takes her hand. “Come on, I’ll make dinner and you can tell me how much you hate the jerk.”


	24. 4. awkward kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by ponyregrets on tumblr.

“Bellamy.”

It takes approximately four seconds for Bellamy to even realize she called his name, probably because he’s overthinking everything about their cover story and all the lines they shouldn’t cross and –

“The camera’s just above our heads, you better kiss me  _now_  or our cover’s blown,” Clarke threatens, leveling him with her most serious stare even when she’s trying so hard not to laugh at his helpless expression. 

He leans forward, a look of concentrated determination in his eyes, and touches their lips together. Okay. Well, that’s it. He doesn’t move or even close his eyes, just freezes. 

“What are you doing?” she asks through muffled lips, a little irritated.

“Kissing you,” he answers, breath hot against her skin. The small movement of his lips against hers isn’t what a kiss is, not for most people, but god it just makes her want this to be more real.

She huffs. And then takes his limp arms and wraps them around her waist, takes his face in her hands and angles him for a  _real kiss._  Because fuck the mission – he’s only kissed her once and then couldn’t talk to her for all of one week before they had to interact again because of  _this_  mission. She’s not an idiot. He is, though.

The alarms sound and they break away, his eyes dark and hungry and dazed. She finds herself smirking at the aftermath. “Let’s go, Raven will be pissed if we miss a millisecond.”

They run down the hallway, her hand clutched in his. “We’re talking about this later, Griffin,” he says as they round the corner. 

“Looking forward to it,” she replies. “And other things,” she adds, just to see him trip on nothing. 


	25. 2. forehead kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by thelittlewolfpup on tumblr.

Bellamy, for the most part, is a very functional drunk. When he gets drunk, which is a rarity because he believes in not killing his liver, he doesn’t sway on his feet or get all sloppy. He just – he turns into this weirdly smile-y, happy person. And well. Clarke has a thing for Bellamy’s smile. (And his face, in general, but that’s a can of worms best left unopened.) 

So carrying him up his apartment is supposed to not be a big deal seeing as he’s steady on his feet and coherent enough. It’s just that he likes putting his arms around her shoulders, and saying things like, “You know that you’re, like, my bestest friend, right?”

 _Bestest._ He just said ‘bestest’. “You just said ‘bestest’,” Clarke says, because she can’t help it. 

He looks down at her as they’re walking down the hallway to his bedroom. “You are,” he frowns, as if her disbelief is towards the sentiment. 

She means to explain that she  _knows_  that, but he’s already extracting himself from her and  _stripping_  in front of her – she guesses, for bed, because that’s what they’re in his bedroom for. But. Clarke has eyes.

“And you’re my person,” he continues, voice muffled as he pulls his shirt over his head. “And I love you. Like. More than myself sometimes.”

He’s down to his boxers now, and Clarke tries so hard to not look down because he might not remember this in the morning, but she will. And that would suck. Also, his words are sending her some muddled signals so unless he makes that clear, she’s going to file this image in her fantasies –

He jumps to the bed and huddles in his blankets, smiles up at her, all twinkly eyes and sleepy blinks. He’s fucking adorable this way and she’s only decent enough not to cuddle him in his drunk state. 

“Clarke,” he says. “You’re my person.”

“I know,” she replies. “I heard it the first time.”

“Yeah, okay,” he nods and then closes his eyes. “And it’s okay if… I’m not yours. But you’re mine. I mean, my best friend.”

Clarke knows Bellamy, and his history. That he’s given so much of himself to people, but has never expected anything in return. It doesn’t even come from any stern talking to when he was a kid – it comes from a whole life of thinking it’s the way his world works. And she loves him.

She kneels beside his bed and smiles down at him. “You’re my best friend, too. My person. Okay?” She figures it doesn’t matter if he wouldn’t remember it in the morning. He has to hear it. And she would repeat it to him in the morning. He deserves it.

She wants to kiss him on the lips, but it’s probably best not to, so instead she cards her fingers through his hair, leans forward and brushes her lips against his forehead, light. He blinks up at her and smiles. “Thank you for saying it,” he whispers.

“Go to sleep, Bellamy.” He nods and he does.

He remembers in the morning, and kisses her instead.


	26. 17. shy kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by queenofchildren on tumblr.

It’s 9:07 pm, Clarke’s sitting on a twin-sized bed, cross legged, across Bellamy Blake fidgeting nervously while also glaring holes into her skull. Now, this scene would have been hilarious were they twelve-year olds in their first house party caught in an unfortunate game of “Seven Minutes in Heaven”. But as it is, they’re two twenty-something adults in their hundredth house party caught in an unfortunate game of “Seven Minutes in Hell”.

“Why are you mad  _at me_?” 

“You’re the one who convinced me to go to this stupid party in the first place!” 

Clarke huffs. “It’s  _your_  surprise birthday party!”

She knows surprise parties are not everybody’s scene, and it might not have been Bellamy’s either seeing as he’s being an ass right now, but Octavia had looped Clarke into this with an assurance that Bellamy secretly loves parties, and a very convincing argument that doesn’t sound very convincing anymore as of this moment.

And as if on cue, Octavia’s very loud, very non-discreet voice comes muffled through the locked door. “They don’t sound like they’re making out yet, Raven, what do you think?”

“Nope,” Raven chirps, far too cheerfully. “Let’s give them another seven minutes to think about their actions then.”

Bellamy huffs his world-weary huff, and Clarke wonders if all he needs is a house with a lawn and a bunch of loitering children to complete the whole old man persona.

They know each other well enough seeing as ever since Clarke came into town six months ago, he apparently took it to himself to make her dinner every other night. At first, she thought it was just her very friendly neighbors doing her some kindness. Later, she found out from his sister that it was because Bellamy felt like she’s not taking care of herself properly. Which was. Well, endearing, if a little annoying.

“He thought ‘med school, weird work hours, and instant ramen in her cupboards’ aren’t the healthiest mix of things for a lifestyle,” Octavia had confided with her over coffee. 

“Does he do this to everybody?” she had asked in return.

“Yes… no,” O had replied, which was not the most helpful of answers and still bugs Clarke up to this day.

But their  _friendship_  kinda grew from there, and from bringing her dinner to actually hanging out with her and welcoming her into a very chill friend group, she finds that she actually really likes Bellamy Blake. Like,  _like_ like. And having a crush on her next door neighbor might not be the worst thing to ever happen to her, but Bellamy Blake is… different.

For one, he likes her too. 

She’s not an idiot, and he’s not that hard to read. And to give credit where credit is due, Octavia told her. Not directly, but in this really unsubtle “my brother hasn’t had the best track record in terms of relationships, so anyone who wants to try will go through me. Even if we’re really good friends, and-slash-or next door neighbors” to Clarke’s way. 

So now, they, Bellamy and Clarke, are stuck in this kind of limbo where if he won’t say or do anything apart from bringing her dinner and looking at her like he wants to kiss her, then she wouldn’t say or do anything either.

In all her being a genius, she’s somehow convinced him that if they lay on the bed, make moaning noises and nothing else, they’d somehow get out of this fiasco unscathed.

That’s where they are now. Staring at the sky blue ceiling and moaning occasionally. She’s kind of glad they can do this without making it weird, but also a little disappointed that for all those times that his gaze lingered on her lips, the one time he can actually do something about it, he chose to lie beside her and just… fake moan.

Eventually, there are faint, probably drunken giggles from behind the door, and then the click of the lock, which of course signals that the game is over. She sits up and contemplates whether to straighten her shirt or make it look like they  _have_  just been making out, and then he reaches over and puts his hand on her shoulder.

“What?” she sounds annoyed, but she can’t help it.

He looks like he’s very angry about being trapped in a room with her, but that could be his default expression at parties. 

“Can I – I want to – “ he makes this frustrated noise and tips his head back, his Adam’s apple bobbing. And then he looks back at her, and with a nod to himself, closes the distance between them slowly. 

She’s frozen, unable to say anything because his breath is on her skin now, and he’s so careful that when their lips touch, it feels like nothing and everything all at once.

She touches his face, her fingers light against his cheek, and he makes this sound that’s a lot like a _real_  moan, and suddenly it feels like that’s when the  _real_  kiss starts, deep and hot and wet. 

He pushes her back on the bed, licks into her until she gasps and grasps at his hair, the weight of him on top of her making it harder to concentrate on anything other than him and his kiss, with his hand steady on the skin of her hip where her top has ridden up.

So when there’s a crash, it surprises both of them into breaking apart. He doesn’t get up from where they’re pressed together, but he does lift himself on his elbows. 

He looks wrecked, lips swollen and red, and eyes dark. His gaze keeps dropping to her mouth, like he wants to do it again, but there are people in the room now, people she reckons are very drunk and very invasive. 

It’s Octavia and Raven who let out identical shouts of delight at the scene. And Lincoln who ushers them out along with Miller and Monty who were also present, and for that Clarke is grateful. 

She laughs because she can’t help it. But Bellamy still looks annoyed. 

“What is it?”

He frowns. “I didn’t want our first kiss to be because of a dare.”

She laughs again because he is ridiculous and romantic and  _cute_. “It was bound to happen anyway,” she says finally when his face has relaxed to a point where she sees the start of a smile. “I’m kind of glad it did happen on your birthday because I didn’t bring any presents with me.”

He blinks, amused. “Well. Best birthday present ever.”

She grins. “There’s more where that came from,” she says, low. He chokes on nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Come throw me some more on my [tumblr](http://hooksandheroics.tumblr.com/post/112362132690/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you). :)


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